


Trou Normand

by graham_png



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cock Warming, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent Due To Illness, Dubious Ethics, Episode: s01e09 Trou Normand, Hannibal Lecter is a Little Shit, M/M, Manipulation, Oral Fixation, Self-Soothing Thumb-Sucking, Will Graham Has Encephalitis, collaring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-20 11:07:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30003936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graham_png/pseuds/graham_png
Summary: A human totem pole composed of seventeen different bodies is found on a beach. Will Graham's encephalitis is becoming more unmanageable. He seeks help from his psychiatrist, Hannibal Lecter, whose intentions are dishonest and manipulative.A rewrite of Trou Normand, in which Hannibal and Will engage in a destructive Dom/Sub-like dynamic.Forewarning, Hannibal is a terrible doctor you wouldn't want to consult when battling a progressing autoimmune disease.
Relationships: Will Graham & Alana Bloom, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 1
Kudos: 44





	Trou Normand

There are seven shallow graves. Blood pools at the base of the totem pole, but only one body bleeds. From the bottom begins the first life taken, and at the top, Joel Summers. He is no more than hours old. His body broke to accommodate the totem pole’s vision; his legs are wings, his head tipped to the ground so he may know who stands before him. Joel Summers is the hawk that completes the totem pole. His dead eyes are unseeing behind closed lids. He doesn’t know Will Graham stands beneath him, staring upward at the blood that trickled to the hands that hold his head.

The same blood felt eerily real as the scene deconstructed before him. It’s a phantom memory as he sits in his car -- cold, treacly in feel, staining the edges of his sleeves. When he looks at the wheel, his fist is white-knuckled. His sleeves are clean. He exhales deeply.

“Will?”

The voice against his ear is gritty. It feels like dragging his palm across the sand. The phone is cold against his ear, drawing him back to reality.

“Will, are you present?”

“I’m present. I’m…” Will looks out the window. “I-I’m outside your office.”

There is a pause, then: “Come inside.”

The waiting room is olive green. He devotes little time to examine the artworks that line the walls, as they are familiar to him. The newest addition hanging adjacent to a bare woman’s portrait is a nude portrait of himself. Will blinks, exhaling shallowly. Jack will see it and every patient that comes after this impromptu visit.

The door to Hannibal’s office opens. Will’s distress is impregnating. The tug of Hannibal’s mouth is slight as he opens the door wider.

“Some adjustment had to be made to my Géricault, but I think it fits well. Do you?”

Will’s lips part, but speech is absent. He nods unsurely, discontented on several layers, too deeply penetrated by too many spears to understand how bothersome his own displayed nudity is. He shakes his head, then, to rid himself of the nagging ringing in his ear.

Hannibal closes the door with a soft click. The sound startles.

“Are you well?”

Will’s panic slips. “I don’t-I don’t know how I got here.”

“You called me from your car, so we know you drove.”

“I was on a- on a beach in Grafton, West Virginia. I blinked, and I was waking up in your parking lot, except I wasn’t asleep.”

“Grafton, West Virginia is three-and-a-half hours from here. You lost time.” Hannibal pauses, then: “You have an empathy disorder. What you feel is overwhelming you. Your dissociation is your psyche’s method of protecting you from repeated abuse.”

Will’s pacing hasn’t ceased since entering the room. He knows it well. He hadn’t known the route from Grafton to Baltimore but had driven from one point to another. Will could navigate this room blind; he had once, under different circumstances, but driving without consciousness is precarious.

“How hard of a hand do you need today, Will? Or would you like to trust my judgment?”

Will’s nictitating gaze flicks to Hannibal.

“Come. Sit at my feet.”

He moves with aching uncertainty; the task is familiar, welcomed, and mitigating, but he is overwrought with fear towards his lapse of consciousness. Had he done harm while he was driving? His car is undamaged, himself unscathed. It could have been a stray dog, or a cat, or something lesser like a raccoon.

Hannibal’s trousers smell as they always do. Will inhales deeply against his knee, turning his nose into the crook. Hannibal pets through his hair, detangling as his fingers drag through it, careful not to tug without reason to do so. Will rarely gives reason for reprimand, and being so fragile, Hannibal’s touch lacks any hostility, necessary or either.

He taps the inside of his thigh with a forefinger. The high rise of Will’s cheek goes to the same spot, and such practice alleviates a measure of anxiety.

“You were at the crime scene when you dissociated. Tell me about it.”

Will sighs softly, exhaling hotly against Hannibal’s groin. “It was a totem pole of bodies,” he says. Near immediately is he lost in recollection. Hannibal tugs on his hair, just slightly.

“In some cultures, crimes and guilt are made manifest so that everyone can see them and see their shame,” he says.

“This isn’t shame,” Will counters. “It’s celebration. He’s marking his achievements.”

So certain.

“Would you rather I not celebrate my achievements?” Hannibal asks. After Will’s momentary, questioning glance, he clarifies. “We have reached bounds. I would like to celebrate you, as you are, as I have the privilege to see you.”

The drawing was made during several appointments. During each sitting, Will was sightless. Black silk obstructed his gaze. He often opened his eyes, searching for the one who sat feet away, his pencil scratching continuously against a single piece of heavyweight paper. With each break of pose came a tut, and Hannibal often tutted, as the paisley handkerchief functioning as a gag was soaked and dripping. Will withdrew with every string of saliva that broke and landed at his feet, slipping between his toes.

‘Bring your arm up for me, Will.’

After the third instance of correction, it was: ‘Elbow, Will. The rug will survive your saliva. I ought not to have to tell you again.’

Now, regressing back to his previous state of paranoia, Hannibal relieves him of the decision, saying, “It belongs where I have put it, as you belong where I have set you. Your body recognized the need for a guiding hand and led you here, to where it knows you will be free from the abuse you endure.”

“I’m not abused,” Will murmurs, sounding dubious even as he opposes.

“You ignore the exploitation of your mind. Jack misuses it, and you allow it, repeatedly. That is the abuse I’m referring to.”

Hannibal’s blunt nails scratch his scalp. Will’s breath exhales more heavily through his open mouth.

“You want me to quit?”

“Jack Crawford gave you a chance to quit, and you didn’t take it. Why?”

Will shakes his head. Through Hannibal’s trousers, he feels the burn of stubble. “I save lives,” Will replies as if that is the only reasonable cause for enduring such misuse.

“And that feels good.”

Will sighs. “Generally speaking, yes.”

“Does this feel good?”

He needn’t ask, but Will is aware of his desire to have such admittances said aloud. “ _Yes_ ,” he replies. An inkling begins to knock at the forefront of his mind, and Will hesitates, nervous to ask, knowing the answer. “Do you want me to quit?

Will’s chin tilts upward. It is easier to look Hannibal in the eye now than it had been months ago when they first began this course of treatment.

Hannibal’s smile is slight. “Have you any doubt that I want you to quit?” He answers, and with that tinge of amusement Will knows well. “Nothing would satisfy me more than continuing our arrangement under different means, but you recognize myself as a means for stability. An anchor in an otherwise stormy sea.”

Will’s mouth presses against the crease of Hannibal’s hip, poised to speak but without words to say. They often entertain making this arrangement a full-time, or nearly full-time, ordeal; such ponderings are only made amid a scene, so neither considers it to be more than an impassioned ideal.

Hannibal’s petting ceases. His fingers curl around the base of Will’s skull, his thumb stroking against the cushioning of umber curls. “I’m worried about you, Will.”

A full minute of silence elapses before Will concedes. “I’m worried about me, too,” he whispers, caught on a broken, silent cry when his nape is squeezed and released. Hannibal lets him have his moment of vulnerability, watchful of the way Will’s shoulders tense and shake, how Will’s open mouth flutters against his pant leg, and how not a tear is shed.

“You empathize so wholly with the killers that you lose yourself to them. What if you lose time and hurt yourself? Or someone else?” Hannibal asks. He leans, and the chair creaks with him. The strangled sound Will emits as lips press atop his head sounds above the final protest of leather. “I don’t want you to wake up and see a totem of your own making.”

His petting resumes, though his hand works in slower strokes. The effect of his attention is near immediate; Will’s breath slows, his shaking reduced to a vice-like grip around his entangled hands. A soft whine accompanies his nuzzling.

“Your lapse of time scares you,” Hannibal says. It is not spoken as a question and does not beg for an answer. “Why did you come here, Will?”

“I don’t… _I don’t know_.”

Hannibal tsks. Instinctively, Will tenses. Hannibal eases it with a slight jerk of his chin, allowing a second opportunity for a sufficient answer.

“For… For an anchor,” Will answers. His mouth is nearer Hannibal’s groin again, nose against the soft swell of his stomach as Will inhales and finds solace in a familiar scent. Hannibal hums. “I need you to anchor me,” Will says, more positively. “I need…”

He sighs, though the sound borders just so on the line of pleasure. Hannibal encourages it with a pull to the hair he thoughtfully smoothed. Will’s receptiveness displays itself tenth-fold as he self-soothes without the usual timidness that clutches him so swiftly; there was no prompt for him to take Hannibal’s thumb in his mouth, nor encouragement for him to suckle like a babe.

“There you are,” Hannibal coos. “Would you like the black or brown collar today?” He gives a moment, knowing no response will be provided. It is plain that Will comes to him with the expectation of being, if not controlled, heavily persuaded. “I think brown.”

Just then, Will’s telephone rings. Hannibal’s regardful stare flicks to the man’s pockets. Will, previously so content, is upset by the disruption.

“No need to fret,” Hannibal mumbles. “Look at the contact. If it’s Jack, give it to me.”

It is Jack. Will needn’t spare more than a glance to know he is being called back to Quantico. The device is placed face-up on Hannibal’s palm. It continues to vibrate as it is set aside.

“Close these,” Hannibal says, swiping his wet thumb beneath Will’s eye.

Will hums softly. With a guiding hand, his forehead is pressed against the edge of the vacant seat. It still issues a degree of warmth. Will turns his cheek to it when the hand leaves, sightless as he was told to be but sharply aware of the movement that skirts around the room.

Then, as a hand returns to sweep through his hair, Will lifts his head. His neck is craned, presenting as he knows he ought to.

The leather is thick, though no wider than three-eighths of an inch. Unbeknownst to Will, the set was specifically designed and imported after a half-dozen trials. Its design is simple; it is nothing more than a strip of walnut leather with a hooked clasp to secure it around Will’s throat. It fits snuggly, allowing room for breath but ensuring its presence cannot be ignored.

Will’s relief is evident as it slides against his laryngeal prominence, tightening just so until Hannibal slides its hooked ends together. He exhales experimentally, and Hannibal smiles, hooking his forefinger behind it for a moment before letting it sit as it was designed to fit.

“Let’s take these layers off,” says Hannibal. He gives the collar one last caress before peeling Will’s jacket from his shoulders. It slips to the floor with a soft clunk and is brushed aside by the toe of Hannibal’s shoe. Will’s own are toed off, woolen socks peeled and folded. The buttons of his flannel are undone by Hannibal’s agile fingers. When that, too, falls to the floor, Hannibal sighs a pleased sound. “There you are.”

Will promptly resumes his nuzzling at Hannibal’s knee, but Hannibal tsks.

“Pants as well, Will.”

“I’m…” He goes no further, but he needn’t, as this a routine they are practiced in.

“It’s natural,” Hannibal chides. “You are shown due attentiveness, and your body reacts the best way it knows how. I have never asked you to show shame because of natural responses, have I?”

“No.”

“Then I would like the pants removed as well.”

Will’s breath picks up, but he lifts his hips. His trousers unbutton, then unzip, and join the pile on the floor. He is left with tenting boxers. Hannibal idly considers the erection but decides to leave it duly ignored. He sits in the opposite chair, leaving Will kneeling at the opposite one with his back turned towards his observing audience.

Will immediately mourns the loss.

“Tell me about your confrontation with Alana.”

“I-” Will tenses. “I already did.”

“Yes, you drove an hour in the snow to tell me you kissed her,” Hannibal replies. “Then you sat at my feet with immovable guilt, begging me to be collared for supposed wrongdoings. That is not what the collar is for. We are discussing the instance, so we may reinforce the collar’s purpose.”

Will’s lips part to contradict, but close.

“Head against the chair,” says Hannibal.

Will sighs. The leather is no longer warm against his forehead. “I kissed her. She told me we wouldn’t be good for each other, that she has a- a _professional curiosity_ she wouldn’t be able to snub.” Will shifts, swallowing. “So I kissed her again.”

Hannibal is silent for a moment, then: “Was this second kiss initiated with the intention of being intimate?”

“I don’t know.”

“Would you like to know what I think?”

There is a pause in which Will considers, then nods.

“I believe your attraction to Alana stems from your desire to coexist with a nurturing figure. You recognize her as a being who wishes to mother you. Having been abandoned by your paternal mother, the wires are crossed, and you confuse coddling for intimacy. She is naturally a nurturer, and you are the perfect candidate to entertain her disposition.”

“I’m not confused,” Will objects. His head lifts marginally. “Alana is- she’s pretty, and…”

Hannibal waits. “Head against the chair, Will.” When it seems Will has no other reasoning he would procure, Hannibal asks, “Why did you come to me?”

“To be collared,” he replies.

“For what reason?”

“Comfort,” Will answers. He swallows, then corrects the lie. He hadn’t skirted around it before; his begging was abundantly clear. “For punishment.”

“The collar is for comfort. It grounds you when you are overwhelmed. It does not serve any other purpose. You will not ask to have it put on to atone for some mistaken sin.”

Will nods.

“Good. You may dress when the hour is over.”

***

“Freshest one is Joel Summers. Forty years old. Runs a cell phone store in Knoxville, Tennessee. Or did,” Jimmy says. “Been missing for three days.”

Joel Summers’ body bears the marking of a dead man. His skin is paled, purpled, and cold to the touch. A plastic shroud is pulled down mid-chest. The one penetrating injury is equally pale, though touched with yellow where the skin had torn under the force of a pointed blade.

“Single stab wound to the heart. All the other injuries are post mortem. Bones broken, hips and shoulders dislocated.”

Will nods slowly as Brian Zeller explains. The bruising is still vibrant. “He was special to him somehow,” he says. “He held a place of honor.”

“Seven bodies from unmarked graves at the crime scene.” Jimmy looks down at Joel Summers. He is neither disgusted nor intrigued. “Earth on the body parts matches the gravesites.”

“Blunt force trauma, stabbings, strangulations,” Brian lists. “Wrongful deaths.”

Beverly Katz takes her place in the conversation, saying, “There are at least eight other bodies that are recent grave robbings from all across West Virginia. No crimes attributed to any of them. Accidental deaths.”

Will shakes his head. His fingers skirt around his throat. There is no weight, no leather, no bruising to match the body upon the table. His hand drops, and his fingers curl within his pockets.

“They’re all murders.”

***

The image of a mangled car illuminates the lecture hall.

“Anthony Lamb, twenty-eight. Fatal car wreck. Nineteen eighty-six.”

The image changes to a laughing woman; briefly, all eyes flick to the projection.

“Francesca Bourdain, forty-two. Suicide by pills. Nineteen ninety-four.”

He clicks through the rest: Adrian Packham, a sixty-year-old man who died of a massive coronary in two thousand one, and Peter McGee, who was poisoned by carbon monoxide in his home in two thousand six. Then the seven graves in the snow, followed by Joel Summers, laid atop the totem pole in his inhumanely bent form.

“Will?”

He’s pulled from his reverie.

“I don’t want to interrupt if you’re rehearing.”

Will looks to the surrounding seats. The lecture hall is empty but for himself and Alana Bloom, who lingers in the doorway. He reaches to touch his throat. The presence of a leather collar was imagined, too.

He realizes, with growing clarity, that he had been hallucinating.

“No… No, it’s- uh… It’s okay.”

Alana steps further into the room. Aside from the lighting of lamps, the space is dark. “Very moody in here,” she says. Her tone borders on jest, and Will reciprocates it, saying, “Well, that’s _me_ all over.”

She smiles.

“Come on in,” he says, gesturing inside. “I promise I won’t try to kiss you again. Unless you stopped taking your own advice.”

Her smile widens slightly. “A doctor who treats herself has a fool for a patient,” she replies, then: “I regretted leaving your house the other night.”

“ _Regretted?_ Implying that you are no longer regretting?” Will asks. “Or are you still… in a state of regret?”

“I’m crisscrossing the state line.”

“What side of the line are you on now?”

Alana takes enough steps forward to touch if she so chooses, but she does not. “I’ve got one foot firmly planted on both sides,” she replies, taking another cautious step forward.

Will shakes his head. He rubs at his nape, though it does not bring the comfort of what he lacks.

“Are you telling me that to confuse me?”

“No,” she says. “I’m telling you that to be honest about how I feel. I don’t want to mislead you, but I don’t want to lie to you either.”

Will nods, hoping the blind agreement will dissuade his confusion.

“I won’t lie if you won’t.”

A moment of silence elapses before Alana begins her confession. “I have feelings for you, Will,” she says, and Will thinks this must have been rehearsed. Nonetheless, it leaves him bemused. “But I don’t want to just have an affair with you. It would be… reckless.”

“Why?” He asks, chuckling and rubbing his barren throat again, hoping for comfort. _‘She is naturally a nurturer, and you are the perfect candidate to entertain her disposition,’_ is repeated mockingly in his head. “It’s not- It’s not because you have a professional curiosity about me.”

“No. It’s because I think you’re unstable, and until that changes, I can only be your friend.”

Will’s casual lean is abandoned. He steps behind his desk and curls his fingers around the headrest of his seat. His knees want to buckle and obey an order he was not given, but what will remain to be an irksome prickle to his subconsciousness until he is given the opportunity to obey.

“Do you feel unstable?”

Will nods, and his grip strengthens. He needs to bend, press his cheek into the cushioning, and breathe.

Alana reaches. Will’s visible tension deters her attempt.

“Please… _Please_ leave.”

His eyelids close. He does not see Alana leave but hears the quiet click of heels against carpeted flooring and smells her perfume more faintly. He does not know she lingers by the doorway, nor that she sees his sudden descent to the floor and the broken breath that comes as his forehead is pressed against cracked cushioning.

He feels a gentle brush through his hair and a particular pressure begging to take hold of his throat.

Will blinks.

“You did a good job,” says Hannibal. His windowpane suit shows wear. The jacket is unbuttoned, his vest slightly creased from long hours of sitting. “You’ve done very well, Will.”

Will blinks again. His cheek turns against the chair. There is an indentation of stitching pressed in a pink line against his temple. His intake of oxygen becomes shuddering breaths once more, an indication of ongoing panic. Hannibal hooks his forefinger behind the leather collar, and the added width brings a recognizable constriction.

“You’re alright.”

The fitting becomes looser as Hannibal’s hand leaves its place at his nape. It slides down the edge of his jaw, thumb brushing against a chapped lip. Will opens and takes the digit. He does not suck but allows it to rest on his tongue, acting as a second presence to ground him.

“I’m going to sit down now, Will, and I would like you to tell me why you had an episode once you feel well enough to speak.”

The thumb stays in the warmth of Will’s mouth as Hannibal maneuvers into the old swivel chair. He pats the inside of his thigh and pets the head that comes to rest against it. Will turns his nose into Hannibal’s groin, and Hannibal smiles, muttering an encouragement for breath and praising when he feels heated puffs of air expelled against his sheltered cock.

“That’s right,” Hannibal coos. Slight suckling begins to compress the width of his thumb. “You’ve done so very well to ask for me.”

Will makes a small sound -- confused and uneasy. He couldn’t recall asking for Hannibal or any moment between laying his head upon the chair and waking to a hand petting through his hair. It continues its ministrations, running from his ear to the base of his skull.

“I received a call from Alana Bloom. She said you were ill and asked for me.” He pointedly omits mention of Will’s fervent self-soothing and consequent arousal. It is an unapproachable acknowledgment until they are on even ground. “This is what you were supposed to do,” Hannibal continues. “You’ve made immeasurable progress.”

When Will releases Hannibal’s thumb, a string of saliva follows. It is subsequently absorbed by Hannibal’s pant leg.

“I…” He swallows thickly. “I was working the case. I thought I was teaching, but there was nobody _here_.”

Hannibal hums. “A hallucination?”

He ignores the spoken truth of his sanity. “I need…” Will pauses, hoping for a telepathic understanding that will not come. Hannibal is rarely ignorant of Will’s wants and supposed needs, but he is selfish. Will downturns his gaze, yielding to the baser part of himself whose dependency stretches further than his self-sufficiency.

“I need you to keep me,” he whispers.

A request so rarely asked of him and only proposed at the worst of times.

“Would you like to tell Jack, or shall I?” Hannibal wipes his thumb on his trousers, abating the need for an agreement by deciding himself. “Jack would be more apt for compliance if I were to explain. The evening, you think?”

Will nods.

“Go to the Bentley and wait for me there. There’s bottled water in the console. I’d like you to drink some while you wait. A quarter of the bottle.”

“The collar?”

“Cover it with my scarf. Be quick, now.”

The scarf is grey cashmere and silk. It smells of sandalwood, peony, and vanilla -- a scent Will is wholly familiar with and incomparably comforted by. He inhales against it, decoding the cologne’s components as he walks past colleagues in an uninterrupted stupor.

The water he drinks is lukewarm. The bottle was half-emptied before he touched it and now houses a quarter of its original contents. Will swallows.

Hannibal is seemingly satisfied by this as he settles behind the wheel of the Bentley. He does not ask for his scarf. It twists in his Will’s hand, wound around his fingers as a means of distraction that proves insufficient.

“What did Jack say?”

“He said to take the day, and he hopes for a speedy recovery.”

“What did Alana say?”

Hannibal glances at Will’s wrapped hands. “She said much the same, only to take as long as you need. She gives her apologies.”

Will’s brow furrows. He redirects his stare out the window, but Hannibal’s home is quick to appear, and the short journey does not offer enough time to ease his fretfulness.

The vehicle becomes idle. It is Hannibal who opens the door first and allows Will to exit from the passenger side. The scarf is unwound from its tangle around his hands and wrists and hung on a mahogany coat rack.

“We’ll begin as we always have before,” says Hannibal. “The collar comes off while you’re soaking. I trust you will keep it dry.” He cards a hand through curls; he rarely refrains from the natural desire to do so. “Use the conditioner, too.”

“Bath or shower?” Will asks.

“Shower. Be quick about it.”

Blanketed in the element of his kitchen, the time that elapses between Will’s disappearance and reappearance is largely spent without lingering thought towards his absence.

Hannibal begins dinner preparations with practiced efficiency. His original menu is adjusted to accommodate tonight’s guest and, subsequently, a much thinner time frame. To his benefit, preparations were made for the express opportunity that they may engage in another full-length scene. Hannibal had begun to suspect it upon Will’s last impromptu visit, but things are progressing as they should be, and it is not with bitterness that he prepares a sub-par meal.

The scent of his shampoo wafts from the open doorway of his master bath.

“Finished?” Hannibal asks.

Will nods slightly. His towel-dried curls stick to his temples. When Hannibal sniffs against those damp curls, he is satisfied to smell the wonted scent of his products. “Well done,” Hannibal murmurs. He scratches his fingers through the length of coarser hair that grows at the base of Will’s penis. “Here as well. Very good of you to think of it without prompt.”

Will grabs his wrist. Hannibal tsks softly, and Will’s hold releases.

“None of that,” Hannibal chides. “You’d deny me my fill of this beautiful cock of yours?”

Will makes a small sound -- tense, hyper. His penis betrays him with an affected twitch, beginning to fill. “There we are,” Hannibal coos. His attentions travel no further than the trimmed, conditioned patch of umber curls, but Will makes a second noise of distress, begging for more or less.

Hannibal gives the half-hard state of Will’s penis a gentle squeeze. Then, as Will seems to find this touch wholly unbearable, Hannibal leaves him to retrieve the brown collar from its drape on an empty towel rack. The leather has not creased, as Hannibal suspected it would with a degree of pique. The leather is as it was: dry, soft, and smooth. Will’s cell phone lay face down beside it. Hannibal pockets it and takes the collar.

When Hannibal turns, he finds Will kneeling on the tiled floor. His neck is craned and presented, blushing profusely with anticipatory titillation.

“Darling thing,” Hannibal coos. “Always so good for me.” His hand skirts around Will’s throat. Will’s Adam’s apple bobs in earnest, rubbing against Hannibal’s palm. “You just want to please, don’t you?”

“Will you…” Will moans softly as Hannibal’s fingers close around his jugular. The heel of Will’s palm presses his cock down to the floor, though his stomach bears the marking of his inability; a small, clear bead rests just below his navel. He breathes deeply before continuing. “Will you put it on me?”

Hannibal smiles. The leather collar is fitted and clasped as he says, “Dinner will be ready momentarily. I’d like you to finish up here and join me at the table.”

Will is at the dining table before Hannibal is. He remains nude, as this is what Hannibal prefers. Will kneels on the floor, adjacent to the seat at the head of the table.

He had poured a measure of wine. Hannibal does not indulge temptation by sipping it before paying any mind to the figure at his feet. He taps his thigh, humming his delight when a stubbled chin comes to rest where directed.

“I have prepared liver for tonight,” says Hannibal.

Will listens to the quiet click of cutlery. He is attentive to Hannibal’s first bite, heeding the appreciative noise that rumbles up the man’s throat as he swallows. A small piece of meat is held between Hannibal’s forefinger and thumb. Will takes the tips of both fingers between his lips, folding the liver in the curl of his tongue, and guardedly chews.

“Good?” Hannibal asks. He holds a sliced cherry tomato; Will takes this, too, and nods.

The wine is next to be held in an offering. Will glances at it with plain aversion. Hannibal raises a brow, amusedly questioning. The glass does not retreat nor press to be received. It is held near Hannibal’s thigh and remains cupped in his palm until he gradually solves the supposed issue.

Will unabashedly observes Hannibal’s raise of the glass. It swirls before his nose, and Hannibal inhales as he ritualistically does before his first consumption.

Will’s posture progressively straightens as the glass’s edge touches Hannibal’s lips and as Hannibal swallows the wine. He meets the glass half-way on its descent back to the level of the man’s thigh.

Both head and glass tip. Will gulps, and although the noise of such drought is principally rude, Hannibal entertains his insolence until the glass is emptied.

He takes the stemware and replenishes it from a pitcher of water. When this, too, is held at the level of his hip, Will does not immediately drink from it. Hannibal grins, ineffably charmed, for it is after it has been drunk from himself that Will gulps from the cup.

“Slowly,” Hannibal scolds, despite his beguilement. He waits until the glass is empty to sate his curiosity. “Why must I drink from it first, Will? You have never required it before.”

Will’s gaze follows Hannibal’s consistent offerings of liver, tomato, and dressed spinach. He takes each morsel, but he cannot procure a viable reason for his preferences during his thoughtful chewing. He considers it natural; if he must not eat before Hannibal, he must not drink before Hannibal.

“I’m charmed, nonetheless,” Hannibal says. “Our dynamic is ever-changing, and your dependency is flourishing, which you must know is a point of joy for myself.”

Will’s tongue collects a bead of the red marinade from Hannibal’s knuckle.

Hannibal’s thumb persuades those lips to part another time. Will’s tongue lay still, though his stare vigilantly follows the opposite hand that offers his dinner. “Just another bite of tomato,” says Hannibal, “and if you are still so famished, I’ll prepare a dessert of your choice.”

Will chews the last serving with slow appreciation. He savors the single slice of tomato, as he understands he is expected to sit quietly and patiently until Hannibal finishes his portion of dinner. Hannibal never puts forth an effort to rush but takes ample time to deconstruct and revel in his own skill.

The entirety of dinner is finished with another measure of water, and this Will does not gulp but lazily sips.

Hannibal catches a droplet before it may complete its path down Will’s chin.

“Perhaps we will forgo dessert. A belly full of dinner seems to be doing quick work on you.” Hannibal pushes drying curls from his forehead. Even in this, Will is malleable. His head remains tipped, and his gaze half-lidded. Hannibal warmly smiles as he concludes, “Yes, its dishes and rest for you.”

Dishes are not a task Will is expected to partake in, but he is to observe and offer his company. He is a silent presence on slate tile, a drowsy weight against Hannibal’s leg. Hannibal cups his forehead, counting a full five beats. Hot and flushed, but not terribly so. “A rising fever,” he concludes.

Will blinks slowly, markedly bothered. His blinking becomes fluttering as a thumb sweeps across his brow.

“My unfortunate darling,” Hannibal coos. “Never quite well, are you?”

Hannibal’s petting persuades the matter of Will’s illness from his mind, and his hushed praises for Will’s compliance eradicate Will’s worries for his own wellbeing entirely.

Hannibal twirls a curl around his index, pleased by his passivity, and toes Will’s knee.

“How are these feeling?” He asks.

Will spreads them. The motion was subconscious, as so often before had he been asked to open them by way of tapping. In the same way, he expects the sole of a shoe to press on his cock. No such shoe comes, and he sighs, mumbling a quiet “fine” in response.

“Mm.”

“They’re sore,” Will repeats, perturbed to admit it, but acknowledging that he is expected to abide by this degree of honesty.

Despite his discomfort, Will follows on his hands and knees after Hannibal completes his methodical drying of dinnerware. The ache is not eased by carpeted floors, as all of Hannibal’s home is hardwood, tile, or stone, with a handful of rugs fashionably spared where need be.

He settles on baroque tile with murmured dissatisfaction. Hannibal establishes himself on an emerald armchair, unsympathetic but not inattentive. He makes no complaint when Will seeks relief elsewhere.

“Be wary of my trousers, Will.”

The wool of Hannibal’s slacks creates a pleasant abrasion, but Will does not rut against his calf. He sits, shifting slightly to relieve himself of the press of Hannibal’s laces, and mutely nods in understanding.

Hannibal opens the novel he plucked from the side table beside him. His bookmark, an unsatisfactory trial of Will’s current collar, is delicately placed across his thigh. His trousers are unbuttoned and unzipped, and Hannibal’s briefs are pulled to bare the entirety of his penis and scrotum. Will waits until Hannibal’s hand leaves to go to him, engulfing the soft length of his cock in the warm confines of his slackened mouth.

“Just for a little while,” Hannibal mumbles, pushing a hand through Will’s umber curls from forehead to nape to hook two fingers behind the clasp of his collar.

He needn’t warn the consequences of anything more than holding. Will is exhausted, feverish, and wound around the pleasure of easy obedience. He never seeks punishment but abhors it, crumpling easily with the sole suggestion of offending he who tends to him.

When Will’s eyelids begin to progressively droop, Hannibal retrieves the cell phone tucked in his pocket.

A message from Jack Crawford, an email regarding an automatic payment, and the automatic payment’s notification. Hannibal returns Jack’s text in Will’s usual fashion -- clipped, two-word responses. ‘Thank you,’ in regards to well-wishing for Will’s recovery. He notices, with vague amusement, that Alana refrained from contacting him.

Hannibal glances down to the head that is heavy in his lap. Will’s forehead is pressed against his stomach, moving with every inhaled and exhaled breath. He fights sleep with admirable resistance, but the stillness otherwise overcomes him, and Will allows his eyelids to fall, fluttering but remaining downcast as the beginning of a dream overtakes his consciousness.

“Not a thought to be found in your head, is there?”

Hannibal’s musing does not rouse.

He feels Will’s forehead with the back of his hand and finds Will has grown warmer since last he checked.

With his gentle hold on the collar, Hannibal guides Will from him. He catches a line of drool with his thumb and gingerly tucks himself back into his briefs. His trousers remain undone as he leads Will to his feet by way of his collar, tugging when sleep seems to be too heavy and Will, who is displeased to have been roused, falters in his blind step.

He makes a vague complaint of a headache.

“Come now,” Hannibal whispers. “Up on the bed. Your fever needs tending to.”

Will settles on it with a building whine. Hannibal shushes him, but his call for quiet is fruitless. Will’s cheeks are wetted with frustrated tears. Hannibal does nothing to stem the pitiful flow. He searches his connected bathroom for the highest acetaminophen dosage he keeps, so he may reduce the fever that is causing such irrationality.

He asks for Will to swallow.

“My exhausted boy,” Hannibal murmurs. He watches for the bob of Will’s throat as he reaches beneath him, undoing the clasp and setting the walnut collar aside. The lack of leather does not soothe but upsets him further, and Hannibal shushes again. “You know you mustn’t sleep with it on, Will. It will be there come morning, and you can wear it again, but it isn’t supposed to be worn while you sleep.”

Will is led by his nape, and with tears still dampening his cheeks, he wraps his mouth around Hannibal’s cock. The spasmodic contraction of Will’s throat provides undesired stimulation, but Hannibal recognizes the need for such soothing and dutifully persuades himself to remain unaffected.

“There,” Hannibal purrs. “It was rude of me to not have you go right to bed, especially with this tedious fever taking its toll. Not very considerate, was I?”

Will sniffles.

Hannibal smiles, wiping what he can catch before it tumbles from Will’s lashes.

“We’ll get this bout of illness under control,” says Hannibal, “and then all will be well.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, all! I was watching that scene (minute 5:30-8:00) of Trou Normand, and this idea popped into my head and wouldn't go away.  
> Fellow Proshippers/Rms, find me on Twitter (https://twitter.com/graham_png)! I post NSFW content there, so minors, please stay away!


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